Chapter I: Part 1

[Inscription: I will add a few words respecting my kings and
Queens.

They were hastily written from the impulse of the moment, for my
own entertainment, and that of my youngest grand-daughter, without
the remotest idea of printing them. This is my apology for the
careless, familiar style in which they were composed. At the
request of my children I concluded to print them, when it would
have been highly proper to have furnished my royal personages with
a dress more befitting the occasion. But the state of my eyes
rendered it very inconvenient, if not hazardous to attempt it.
And as they are only intended to visit a few of my friends, I
trust to their good nature to excuse the homely garb in which they
are presented.]

THE

KINGS AND QUEENS OF ENGLAND

WITH

OTHER POEMS

BY

MARY ANN H.T. BIGELOW

PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR

MDCCCLIII.

TO THE COMPANION OF HER YOUTH, MIDDLE AGE, AND DECLINING YEARS, THE FOLLOWING POEMS ARE INSCRIBED BY HIS AFFECTIONATE WIFE,

MARY ANN H.T. BIGELOW.

PREFACE.

I must claim the indulgence of my friends for the many defects they will find in my poems, which they will please wink at, remembering that I was sixty years old when I commenced rhyming; and this by way of experiment, while on a visit to my daughter, in Brooklyn.

My first essay, was The Monarchs of England. I took it up for my amusement, wishing to ascertain how much of that history I could recollect without help from any other source than memory.

The rhyme is in many places far from smooth, and there are many redundances that might with advantage be lopped off; and were it to come under the critic's eye to be reviewed, I should feel it quite necessary to improve it, (the poetry, I mean.) But as it would require quite too much exertion for my eyes in their present state, and as the history, dates, &c., I believe, are correct, I send it to the press "with all its imperfections on its head."

CONTENTS.

Kings and Queens of England
To my Daughter Elizabeth
Acrostic
The Evening of Life
An Acrostic
An Acrostic
Written upon receiving a New Year's Gift
Lines to the Memory of Patrick Kelley
My S.S. Class
For my Grandsons, Eddie and Allie
For my Granddaughters, M. and L., an Acrostic
To my Friend, Mrs.R.
To my Niece, Angeline
An Acrostic
An Acrostic
She slumbers still
To a Friend in the City
Reply
Rejoinder to the foregoing Reply
To my Friend, Mr.J. Ellis
A Pastoral
The Jessamine
For the Sabbath School Concert
Feed my Lambs
God is Love
To my Friend, Mrs. Lloyd
Escape of the Israelites
Ordination Hymn
Margaret's Remembrance of Lightfoot
The Clouds return after the Rain
The Nocturnal Visit
Sovereignty and Free Agency
Autumn and Sunset
"My times are in thy hand"
November
Winter
Life's Changes
"They will not frame their doings"
"Take no thought for the morrow"
Reminiscences of the Departed
"Let me die the death of the righteous"
The Great Physician
To my Niece, Mrs. M.A. Caldwell
The Morning Drive, for my Daughter Margaret
Reply to a Toast
To Mr. C.R.
To my Missionary Friends
To my Husband

POEMS.

THE KINGS AND QUEENS OF ENGLAND,

FROM THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS OR THE NORMAN CONQUEST, TO THE PRESENT REIGN, INCLUSIVE.

First, William the Norman lays claim to the crown And retains it till death; then follows his son The red headed William, whose life is cut short By a shot from his friend, when hunting for sport. Then Henry his brother takes quiet possession, As Henry the first, of the great English nation. Next Stephen, a kinsman gets the crown by his might, But no one pretends to say he had a right. Then comes Hal the second, who cuts a great figure With Becket, fair Rosamond and Queen Eliner. The Lion-hearted _Richard_, first of that name, Succeeded his father in power and in fame; He joined the Crusade to a far distant land But his life was cut short by a murderous hand. Next comes the _cruel_ and _cowardly_ John, From whose hand, reluctant, Magna Charta was won. Then his son Henry third, deny it who can? Though unfit for a King, was yet a good man, And his reign though a long one of fifty-six years Was full of perplexities, sorrows, and fears. His son Edward first next governs the nation, Much respected and feared, in holding that station. The Principality of Wales was annexed in his reign, And his son Edward second, first Prince of that name. But what shall I say of King Edward the third, The most remarkable reign, that yet had occurred; Fire arms in the war, were _first_ used in his reign, And the battle of _Cressy_ of great note and fame, To their introduction has the right to lay claim. The knights of the Garter, first made in his reign In honor it seems of a fair English dame, The Duchess of Salisbury to whom it is said, From Edward _peculiar_ attentions were paid. Of Richard the second we have little to say, And take up the fourth Henry, the next on our way, Who reigned fourteen years, when death cut him down And left his good Kingdom to Henry his son; But ere nine years had past, the fifth Henry was borne To the region of darkness from whence none return. The next reign is full of commotion and strife, And Henry the sixth is seen flying for life; For though King of England, we cannot but see He's but the shadow of a king--that _should_ be; And during the thirty-nine years that he reigned His crown and his sceptre were feebly retained. It was in this reign on her mission intent, That Joan of Arc to the battle field went: The French troops were elated, the English dismayed At the wonderful victories achieved by her aid; At length fortune turns, and 'tis needless to tell Of the fate of this maiden--it is all known too well. Of Edward the fourth it seems proper to say That he fancied Dame Shore, when wed to Bess Gray. But the fate of Jane Shore, should be warning to all Who from love, or ambition, are tempted to fall. When Edward the fourth departed this earth, He left two little sons, both Royal by birth; But ere three years had pass'd, both met with their doom, By a most cruel uncle, cut down in their bloom Of youth, love, and beauty, and laid in the tomb. King Edward the fifth was the eldest one's name, Though never permitted by his uncle to reign. Next comes cruel Richard, the third of that name, Whose vices surpassing put others to shame. When unhorsed in battle, he's so anxious to live, That he cries "for a horse, my kingdom I'll give." But in the same battle he had his last fall-- Lamented by none, but detested by all. In the next reign the wars of the roses, all ended, And the red rose and white, forever were blended; For when Henry the seventh took Bessy his bride, The knot of the roses forever was tied; And when the sceptre descended from father to son, The red and the white leaves all mingled in one. King Henry the eighth had quite a long reign Mixed up with his Anne's, his Katy's and Jane. But from this King we turn with disgust and with shame, And greet with delight, the sixth Edward by name. But only six years did this King fill the throne, When called to resign it and lay his crown down. A worthier we think, has never set On the throne of Great Britain--at least not as yet. With pleasure we love to contemplate him now, With a bright crown of Glory, encircling his brow, In the region of _light, love, peace_, and of joy, Where pleasures eternal can have no alloy. Sin, sickness, and death, never find entrance there, For the air is all balm, and the skies ever fair; The clouds of his young life have all passed away And he enjoys the full light of an endless day-- For all who find footing on that peaceful shore, Shall hunger, and thirst, and sorrow no more. But once more we return to this "dim speck of earth," And revisit the clime that gave Edward his birth. Bloody Mary his sister, next mounted the throne, But when five years had pass'd, was obliged to lay down, Notwithstanding reluctance, her Sceptre and Crown. For death to whom she had sent many a one, Now called for his victim, and made her his own. Not by _fire_ and by _faggot_ was _she_ hurried away, But by painful sickness and loathsome decay. Now commences the reign of the "Good Queen Bess," But _why_ she's called _good_ I never could guess: Yet justice constrains me to allow in the main, That her's was a glorious and most prosperous reign. She had the good sense to know whom to admit To her private councils, as men the most fit; And by their advice, good sense and discretion, She managed with _fitness_ to govern the nation. As a Queen she seems great, though _weak_ as a woman, And when praised as a _Goddess_, was no more than human; At the age of threescore, she loved to be compared As a beauty to Venus, though crook'd and red haired. Of lovers she had full many a one, Who sought, through her hand, a pass to the throne, But chose to remain single; for full well she knew, That in giving her hand, she gave away her power too. In this reign we find ineffacible blots, In the treatment of Essex, and Mary of Scots; The death of the former, the Queen sorely repents, And for her lost Essex she deeply laments. The remorse of a Countess, in keeping his ring, I leave to some rhymer, more able to sing. Next James sixth of Scotland, _first_ of England became-- In peace and security permitted to reign. In the person of James, two crowns were united, And England and Scotland remain undivided. With this king the reign of the Stuarts began, And continued to the end of the reign of Queen Ann. In the reign of Charles first, commences a strife Between King and Parliament, that ends but with life; This poor King was beheaded, his son had to flee, And in his place Oliver Cromwell we see. Now in Cromwell the ruler of England we find; Right or wrong, I never could make up my mind; Still all must allow (for deny it who can?) That this same Oliver was a very great man. In eleven years the days of the Commonwealth ended. And gay Charles the second, the throne then ascended. This second king Charles king of hearts might be call'd, For many a fair one he seems t' have enthrall'd. James second, brother of Charles second succeeded, But after a reign of four years, he seceded; When quitting his throne, and his country he flies Over the channel to France, where he dies. Next the Prince of Orange, (from Holland he came,) For the crown of old England, asserted his claim Through right of his wife, Princess Mary by name. And William the third with Mary his wife Are crowned King and Queen of England for life. This princess was lovely in person and mind, As a wife most devoted, a _friend ever_ kind. Queen Ann's is the next reign that in order appears And it covers the space of thirteen full years. Her death brought the reign of the Stuarts to a close, But firm on their ruins, the House of Hanover rose. With this house the reign of the Georges begins-- And four in succession we count up as Kings. George the third, grandson of the second, so called, Was for virtues and goodness of heart much extolled. His reign the longest of any appears, Bearing title of king for sixty-two years. But when aged four score, this good king we find Bereft of his senses and hearing, and blind. In this reign America declared herself free, And independent of rulers over the sea. At length death relieved him, and he was cut down, To make way for his eldest and libertine son. But though of talent acknowledged the son possessed more, The _sire's heart was good_, the _son's corrupt at the core_; Though admired for his beauty, and manners, and wit, As a husband and father he never was fit. But before we pass on to the next reign in course, We have a most sorrowful tale to rehearse, Of the young princess Charlotte, next heir to the crown, In the spring time of life, scarce with warning cut down. If ever the nation were mourners sincere, 'Twas when they united around the sad bier Of this youthful princess so deservedly dear; And stout-hearted men unaccustomed to mourn, Let bitter tears fall, as they gazed on her urn. But who can describe the anguish of one, The heart-stricken husband apart and alone. As the sun of his happiness rose to its height, Death enters his dwelling, and lo! it is night; The light of his house forever has fled, For his loved one, his dearest, lies low with the dead. In the _same_ day all his fair prospects were crossed, When a _wife_, and a _son_, and a _kingdom_ he lost. Next William the fourth, is proclaimed Britain's king, For between him and his brother two deaths intervene. No _legitimate_ child did he leave in possession Of the Crown of old England, in right of succession; So the diadem passed to the youthful brow Of his niece Queen Victoria, who honors it now; And for her we wish, as our rhyming we close, A _long, peaceful reign_--an old age of repose.

Written while on a visit at Brooklyn, N.Y., 1851.

TO MY DAUGHTER ELIZABETH.

Two flowers upon one parent stem Together bloomed for many days. At length a storm arose, and _one_ Was blighted, and cut down at noon.

The other hath transplanted been, And flowers _fair_ as _herself_ hath borne; She too has felt the withering storm, Her strength's decayed, wasted her form.

May he who hears the mourner's prayer, Renew her strength for years to come; Long may He our Lilly spare, Long delay to call her home.

But when the summons shall arrive To bear this lovely flower away, Again may she transplanted be To blossom in eternity.

There may these sisters meet again, Both freed from sorrow, sin, and pain; There with united voices raise, In sweet accord their hymns of praise; Eternally his name t' adore, Who died, yet _lives forevermore_.

Weston, Jan. 3, 1852.

ACROSTIC.

For thee, my son, a mother's earnest prayer Rises to Heaven each day from heart sincere, Anxiously seeking what concerns thee most; Not merely earthly good for thee she prays, Knowledge, or wealth, or fame, or length of days, What shall these profit, if the soul be lost.

In this life we find alternate day and night, Not always darkness, _sure not always_ light; 'Tis well it should be so, we're travellers here, Home, _that_ "sweet home," the Christian's place of rest, Rises by faith to view when most distressed: Oh! this life past--mayst thou find entrance there.

Perplexed, distressed, sick, or by friends betrayed, Beset with snares, deprived of human aid, In all thy sorrows whatsoe'er they be, Go to the Saviour, tell him all thy need, Entreat his pity, he's a friend indeed; Lay hold by faith on _Him_, and he will succor thee. Oh, do not live for this dull world alone, When with the _Angels_ thou mayst find a home.

Jan. 1853.

THE EVENING OF LIFE.

As the shadows of evening around me are falling, With its dark sombre curtain outspread, And night's just at hand, chilly night so appalling, And day's brilliant sunshine hath fled,

It is e'en so with me, for the eve of my day Has arrived, yet I scarcely know how; Bright morn hath departed, and noon passed away, And 'tis evening, _pale_ eve with me now.

Oh! where are the friends who in life's early morn, With me did their journey commence; Some are estranged, while some few still remain, And others departed long since.

And when I too, like them, shall be summoned away, And the shadows of death on me fall, Be thou the Great Shepherd of Israel but near, My Saviour, my God, and my all.

And though the "dark valley" we all must pass through, Yet surely no evil can harm The _sheep_, when the Shepherd is walking there too, And supports them by his mighty arm.

Oh! my Redeemer, wilt thou be with me then, And food for my journey provide, Divide the dark waters of Jordan again, And safe in thy bosom me hide.

Though wild beasts of the desert may roar long and loud, And the billows of ocean rise high, With thy rod and thy staff for my strength and support, I shall pass them in safety all by.

And having crossed Jordan, on Canaan's bright shore With what joy shall I take a survey, And reflect that the dangers of life are all o'er, And with unclouded vision enjoy evermore The bright sun of an endless day.

Weston, Feb. 4, 1852.

AN ACROSTIC.

Merry, merry little child, Active, playful, sometimes wild; Rosy cheeks, and ringlets rare, Glossy black, with eyes compare. _All, all_ these belong to thee, Right pleasant little Margerie. Every good, dear child, be given Thee on earth, and rest in heaven. But who thy future lot can see? All, _every_ page is hid from me; Xtended through eternity, Thy life so late begun will be. Earnest seek to know the truth, Remember God in early youth; When in his sacred courts thou art, Engage in worship thy _whole heart_; Listen to what the preacher says, Listen to prayers, and list to praise, In nothing see thou dost offend, Nor fail the Sabbath _well_ to spend. Give to thy parents honor due, Thy sisters love, and brothers too; Oh! good and happy mayst thou be, Now and ever, Margerie.

AN ACROSTIC.

Cannot happiness perfect be found on this earth? How absurd to expect it--sin comes with our birth. As soon from spring bitter, sweet water procure, Rich clusters of grapes from the thorn; Look for figs upon thistles, when seeking for food, Or bread from the cold flinty stone. The wealth of the Indies, _true_ peace can't bestow, The Crown Royal oft presses an aching brow, E'en in laughter there's madness--mirth coupled with woe.

As true peace in this world, then, can never be found, Until deep in the heart Christian graces abound, Give diligent heed to the keeping thy heart; Unwearied in effort, repel every dart So dextrously pointed by Satan's black art. True peace is from Heaven--a child of the skies, And feeble exertions secure not the prize.

Never falter in duty, but trust in that power Engaged to support you in each trying hour; When sinking like Peter amidst the dark wave, Ever look unto Jesus, almighty to save. Look _to_ him, live _like_ him, be strong in his might, Lay thy _burden_ on him, and thy _cross_ he'll make light.

WRITTEN UPON RECEIVING A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

I have a little Grandchild dear, Who sends to me on each new year A valuable present: Not costly gift from store-house bought, But one that her own hands have wrought, Therefore to me more pleasant.

Accept, dear child, the wish sincere, For you much happiness this year, And length of days be given; Here may you act well your part, Serving the Lord with all your heart, And find your rest in heaven.

Jan. 1852.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF PATRICK KELLEY, WHO BY HIS MANY GOOD QUALITIES DURING SOME YEARS' RESIDENCE IN MY FAMILY, GREATLY ENDEARED HIMSELF TO ME AND MINE.

From Erin's fair Isle to this country he came, And found brothers and sisters to welcome him here; Though then but a youth, yet robust seemed his frame, And life promised fair for many a long year.

A place was soon found where around the same board, He with two of his sisters did constantly meet; And when his day's work had all been performed, At the _same_ fireside he found a third seat.

His faithfulness such, so true-hearted was he, That love in return could not be denied; _As one of the family_--he soon ceased to be The stranger, who lately for work had applied.

Youth passed into manhood, and with it there came New duties to fill, new plans to pursue; But a fatal disease now seizes his frame, And with health is his strength fast leaving him too.

From his home in the country to the city he went, Where kind brothers procured him good medical aid; But all was in vain--Death commissioned was sent, And soon his remains in the cold grave were laid.

The broad waves of Atlantic lie rolling between His brothers and sisters and parents on earth; And never by parents may those children be seen, Or the latter revisit the land of their birth.

But sooner or later they all must be borne To that region of darkness from whence none return; Oh! then may they meet on Canaan's bright shore, An _unbroken household_ to part nevermore.

Weston, Jan. 1852.

MY S.S. CLASS.

I now will endeavor, while fresh in my mind, My Sabbath School Class to portray; The theme's furnished for me, I've only to find Colors to blend, their forms to display.

And first on the canvass we'll Adeline place, With her full and expressive dark eye; Decision of purpose is stamped on that face, And good scholarship too we descry.

Next in order comes Alice, with bright sunny smile, That does one's heart good to behold; May the sorrows of life ne'er that young spirit blight, Nor that heart be less cheerful when old.

But who's this that we see, with that mild pensive air, And a look so expressively kind? It is Ann, gentle Ann, before whom we pass by, We will add--'t would be useless in any to try Disposition more lovely to find.

The next is a bright noble face we espy, 'Tis a boy of ten years we shall find; There's a spice of the rogue in that merry young eye, With good sense and good nature combined.

It's young master Alpheus--we never have found One more punctual at school hour than he; He's now but a lad, yet who knows when a _man_, But a _Judge in our land_ he may be.

Next comes little Moggy, our dear little Moggy, But before she is brought out to view, We'll new colors select, add fresh tints to the whole, And spread all on our pallet anew.

And now she appears in her own proper size, Her cheeks colored by nature's warm glow; With her full lustrous and speaking black eyes, And rich ringlets that grace her young brow.

Walter's the last on the painting we see, Little Walter, the youngest of all; Look! he's repeating his lesson just now, Mark the expression on that infant brow, He's a _wonder_, for scholar so small.

But there's one in this grouping we look for in vain, Whose image we often recall; How mournfully sweet is the sound of thy name, Dear Elbridge, the loved one of all.

Thou wert called in the freshness of morning away, By him who all things doeth well; The rest for brief periods are suffered to stay, How long, we may none of us tell.

May the Holy Book studied in this Sabbath School, Be more precious than silver or gold; Be its doctrines received, and its precepts obeyed, And _rich treasures_ it still will unfold.

And when one by one we shall all pass away, To me, oh! my Father, be given The joy that no heart upon earth can conceive, To meet all in the kingdom of Heaven.

Weston, Feb. 17, 1852.

FOR MY GRANDSONS, EDDY AND ALLY.

I here engage Upon this page A picture to portray, Of two of an age Yet neither a sage, But right honest hearts have they. Each loves to play And have his own way, Yet I'm happy to say They quarrel, if ever, but seldom. Though competent quite To maintain their own right, And even to fight, Yet peace to their bosom is welcome. Both go to school, And learn by rule That in neither a dunce we may find; Both read and spell And like it well; Thus with pleasure is profit combined. One's eyes are black, The other's blue; They both have honest hearts and true, And love each other dearly: One's father, is brother To the other one's mother, So cousins german are they most clearly; Each has a father, And each has a mother, And both do dearly love him; But neither a sister, And neither a brother, To _play_ with, or to _plague_ him. And here I propose, Ere I come to a close, A little advice to give; To which if they heed, They'll be better indeed, And happier as long as they live. Be sure to mind Your parents kind, And do nothing to vex or tease them; But through each day Heed what they say, And strive to obey and please them. Take not in vain God's holy name, Do not work, Do not play On God's holy day, Nor from church stay away; Always bear it in mind To be gentle and kind, And friends you will find, And hearts to you bind, I am sure I may venture to say. And when you're men, Who sees you then I hope in you models will see, Of _good_ and _great_, In _Church_ and _State_, Whose lips with your lives agree.

Weston, Feb. 1852.

FOR MY GRAND-DAUGHTERS, M. AND L.--AN ACROSTIC.

Mary and Lily--how sweet are those names, Allied as they are to my heart and my home; Recalling with freshness the days that are past, Yielding buds of sweet promise for days yet to come.

Links are these names to the chain that hath bound In fetters my heart, to which still they lay claim; Loved ones and lovely, still close by me found, Years past, and time present, whose names are the same.

Enshrined in this bosom, is living one now, Still youthful and truthful, and talented too, Though years have elapsed since she passed from our view; E'en in Summer midst roses in beauty and bloom, She faded away, and was borne to the tomb.

Weston, March 5, 1852.

FOR MY FRIEND MRS. R.

When writing to you, friend, a subject I'd find In which there's both pleasure and profit combined, And though what I've chosen may pain in review, Yet still there's strange mingling of pleasure there too. Then let us go back many years that are past, And glance at those days _much too happy to last_. I have seen thee, my friend, when around thy bright hearth Not a seat was found vacant, but gladness and mirth Kept high holiday there, and many a time Were mingled in pastime my children with thine. I've looked in again, the destroyer had come, And changed the whole aspect of that happy home. He entered that dwelling, and rudely he tore From the arms of his mother, her most cherished flower. Thy heart seemed then broken, oh! how couldst thou bear To live in this world, and thy idol not here? Oh! heart-stricken mother, thou didst not then know All the bitter ingredients in thy cup of woe. The hand of thy father that cup had prepared, Each drop needful for thee, not one could be spared. Ere thy first wound had healed, while bleeding and sore, Death entered again, and a fair daughter bore From home of her childhood, to return never more. How painful the shock, for in striking that blow A child, parent, sister, and wife was laid low. Thy strength seemed unequal that shock to sustain, But death was not satiate, he soon called again, And tears and entreaties were powerless to save Another dear daughter from death and the grave. Like a fair lily when droops its young head, With little of suffering her mild spirit fled. She was thy namesake, to her young friends most dear; So many thy trials, so heavy to bear, It seemed that much longer thou couldst not survive; _How much can the human heart bear and yet live_. Up to this time there had always been one Who shared in thy trials and made them his own; Many years his strong arm had support been to thee, The friend of thy youth, thy kind husband was he. He's ever been with thee in weal and in woe, But the time's just at hand when he too must go. The bolt fell not single, it pierced the slight form Of a child, too fragile to weather the storm; The summons that took her dear father away Seemed her young heart to break, she could not here stay, And now in deep slumber they side by side lay. I have felt, my dear friend, as I've witnessed thy grief, How inadequate language to give thee relief; And that _real relief_ could never be found Except from the hand that inflicted the wound. In the furnace of fire thou wert not alone, For walking beside thee had ever been one, The kindest of friends, though thou could'st not him see, For the scales on thine eyes weighed them down heavily. Those scales have now fallen; look up, thou canst see That look of compassion, it's fixed upon thee. Raise thine eyes once again, see that head crowned with thorns; In those feet, hands, and side, see the deep bleeding wounds. You now know full well why such suffering was borne, 'Twas for thee, and for me, and for every one Who trusts in his merits and on him alone. Thy day is just passed, 'tis now evening with thee, But the faith of the Christian is given to see The star of bright promise, amid the dark gloom Which shall light all thy footsteps and gild the lone tomb; And at the last day mayst thou and thine stand An _unbroken household_ at Jesus' right hand.

March 27, 1852.

FOR MY NIECE ANGELINE.

In the morning of life, when all things appear bright, And far in the distance the shadows of night, With kind parents still spared thee, and health to enjoy, What period more fitting thy powers to employ In the service of him, who his own life has given To procure thee a crown and a mansion in Heaven. As a dream that is gone at the breaking of day, And a tale that's soon told, so our years pass away. "Then count that day lost, whose low setting sun Can see from thy hand no worthy act done." Midst the roses of life many thorns thou wilt find, "But the cloud that is darkest, with silver is lined." As the children of Israel were led on their way By the bright cloud at night, and the dark cloud by day, So the Christian is led through the straight narrow road That brings him direct to his home and his God; And when the last stage of life's journey is o'er, And Jordan's dark waves can affright him no more, When safely arrived in his own promised land, He's permitted with Saints and with Angels to stand, Then weighed in the balance how light will appear All the sorrows of life, with his blissful state there. Oh! let us by faith take a view of him now, See the crown of bright jewels encircling his brow; His old tattered robe swept away by the flood, Is replaced by a new one, the gift of his Lord; The hand of his Saviour that garment hath wrought, It is pure stainless white, free from wrinkle and spot. The streets that he walks in are paved with gold, And yet it's transparent as glass we are told; The pure river of water of life is in view, And for healing the nations, the tree of life too. There's no need of a candle or sun there, for night Is excluded forever--the Lord God is their light. But here we will stop, for no tongue can declare, No heart may conceive what the Saints enjoy there. And these joys may be ours--oh! how blissful the thought, Ours without money, without price may be bought. For us they've been purchased by the Son of God, At an infinite price--_his own precious blood_. They wait our acceptance, may be ours if we choose, 'Tis _life_ to accept them,--'tis _death_ to refuse.

Weston, May 15, 1862.

AN ACROSTIC.

Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply; Like a dream that's soon ended, so life passes by. Pursue the thought further, still there's likeness in each, How constant our aim is at what we can't reach. E'en so in a dream, we've some object in view Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.

How analagous this to our waking day hours, Unwearied our efforts, we tax all our powers; Betimes in the morning the prize we pursue, By the pale lamp of midnight we're seeking it too; At all times and seasons, this _same fancied good_ Repels our advances, yet still is pursued, Depriving us oft, of rest needful, and food. But there's a pearl of great price, whose worth is untold, It can never he purchased with silver or gold; Great peace it confers upon all to whom given, Ever cheering their pathway, and pointing to heaven. Look not to this world for a prize of such worth, Or hope _that_ to obtain from this perishing earth Whose essence is spiritual, and heavenly its birth.

Weston, June 6, 1862.

ACROSTIC.

Even now I seem to see thee, Lovely boy, with thy sweet smile, Bright and beautiful as when Reading that holy book, the while I listened to thee, little dreaming, Docile, gentle, pleasant child, God who gave, _so soon would take thee_, Even thee, so _sweet_, so _mild_. But how merciful in chastening Our father is--oh! bless his name-- Your little face was decked with smiles, Dear child, just when the summons came. Escaped from lingering sickness, thou hadst Nought to mar thy little frame. While ye mourn the dear departed, Each bitter feeling disallow; Look to heaven, ye broken hearted, Look, and with submission bow. In thy hour of deepest sorrow, Never murmur, dare not blame; God, who wounds, alone can heal thee; Trust his power and praise his name. Oh! may we say, _each_, every one, "Not my will, but thine be done."

SHE SLUMBERS STILL.

On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep, Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then; How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest, 'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.

Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved In beauty and fragrance were blooming around; The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day, But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound.

Day followed day until summer was gone, And autumn still found her alone and asleep; Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill, Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.

Again spring returns, and all nature revives, And birds fill the groves with their music again; But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed, And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.

Unheeded by her the winter snow falls, Its beautiful garment spring puts on in vain; Many _summers_ the birds her sad requiem have sung, But to sound of sweet music she'll ne'er wake again.

There is _but one voice_ that deep slumber can break, 'Tis the same one that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!" At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise, And before God shall stand all the nations on earth.

Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake, Her mortal put on immortality then; And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.

Weston, May 29, 1852.

TO A FRIEND IN THE CITY,

FROM HER FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

By especial request I take up my pen, To write a few lines to my dear Mrs. N.; And though nothing of depth she has right to expect; Yet the _will_ for the _deed_ she will not reject The task, on reflection, is a heavy one quite, As here in the country we've no news to write; For what is to _us_ very _new_, rich, and rare, To you in the city is stale and thread bare. Should I write of Hungary, Kossuth, or the Swede, They are all out of date, antiquated indeed. I might ask you with me the New Forest to roam, But it's stript of its foliage, quite leafless become; N.P. Willis and rival have each had their day, And of rappings and knockings there's nought new to say. Yet do not mistake me, or think I would choose, A home in the city, the country to lose; The music of birds, with rich fruits and sweet flowers, We all in the country lay claim to as ours. A bird that's imprisoned, I hate to hear sing, Let me catch its glad note as it soars on the wing; Its carol so sweet as it's floating along, It seems the Creator to praise in its song. With the sweetest of poets I often exclaim, "God made the country,"--let the pride of man claim The town with its buildings, its spires, and its domes, But leave us in the country our sweet quiet homes. The scenery around us is lovely to view, It charmed when a _child_, and at three-score charms too. Then leave me the country with its birds, fruits, and flowers, And the _town_, with its pleasures and crowds, may be yours. E'en in winter the country has right to the claim Of charms equal to summer; to be sure, not the same. See winter, stern monarch, as borne on the gale, He comes armed _cap-a-pie_ in his white coat of mail; Behold what a change he hath wrought in _one_ night, He has robed the whole country in _pure spotless white_. He fails not to visit us once every year, But finds us _prepared for him_--meets with good cheer, And a most cordial welcome from all of us here. When with us he's quite civil and very polite, In manners most courtly, and dignified quite; But I'm told were he goes unexpected he's rough, Chills all by his presence, and savage enough. _Hark, hear how it storms!_ blowing high and yet higher; But then we've books, music, and a brilliant wood fire, Where logs piled on logs give one warmth e'en to see; Oh! these evenings in winter are charming to me. In good keeping these logs are with wind and the hail, Everything in the country is on a _grand scale_. You have nought in the city I think can compare, To the bright glowing hearth from a good _country_ fire. To be sure, now and then, one is cheered by the sight Of wood fire in the city, but when at its height Compared to _our fires_, Lilliputianal quite. But here I will stop, for I think it quite time To have done with my boasting, and finish my rhyme.

M.A.H.T. BIGELOW. Weston, April 6, 1852.

P.S. And now, my dear friend, it is certainly fair,
Your city advantages you should compare
With ours in the country, let me know what they are.

REPLY:

WHICH I AM GRATEFUL FOR PERMISSION TO INSERT.

Dear Madam, Many thanks for your missive so charming in verse, So kind and descriptive, so friendly and terse; It came opportune on a cold stormy day, And scattered ennui and "blue devils" away; For though in the city, where "all's on the go," We often aver we feel only "so so," And sigh for a change--then _here_ comes a letter! What could I desire more welcome and better? But how to reply? I'm lost in dismay, I cannot in rhyme my feelings portray. The _nine_ they discard me, I'm not of _their_ train, They entreatingly beg, "I'll ne'er woo them again;" But I'll brave their displeasure, and e'en write to _you_ A few lines of doggrel, then rhyming adieu. My errors do "wink at," for hosts you'll descry, And spare all rebuff, and the keen critic's eye. I appreciate all of your calm country life, And feel you are happy as mother and wife; Surrounded by taste, and _the friend_ so refined, Who with sterling good sense, loves the delicate mind; Who with _you_ can admire the "bird on the wing," With _you_ welcome back the return of the spring; Enjoying the promise of fruits and sweet flowers, With music to cheer and beguile evening hours; Then _long_, very long, may such hours be given-- They whisper content, and the foretaste of heaven. I was born in the city, the city's my home, Yet oft in the country with pleasure I roam; For _there_, I confess, the heart finds repose In its pleasures and sorrows, which _here_ it ne'er knows.

_There_ no fashion, no nonsense, intrude on your walk, But rational moments of rational talk, Asserting that soiries, with jewels and dress, Make a very small part of life's happiness. Ah! this I believe, most _sincerely_ I do, And sympathize freely, most truly with you. Now Kossuth is coming, pray what's to be done? No pageant to welcome, to children no fun? Some "turn a cold shoulder," and look with disdain, Yet many there'll be who will follow his train. He's "sure missed a figure," and "bit his own nose," Ah, many the thorn he'll find 'mid life's rose.

Then we've concerts, fine readings, museum and halls, With disputes, and debates, in legislative halls, Ethiopian Minstrels, Shakesperian plays; And yet, my dear friend, I'm told in these days, Religion's blessed joys are most faithfully felt, With devotion's pure prayers the proud heart to melt; That many have turned to the straight narrow road, Which leadeth to peace and communion with God. To _you_ this assurance a welcome will find, A subject of vital concern to the mind.

When hither you come, do enter our door, I'll give you my hand, perhaps something more. Let me urge, if inclined, to this you'll reply, I'll again do my best, yes, surely I'll try; The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire Some poetical lay from Genius' sweet lyre. But Genius repels me, she "turns a deaf ear," And frowns on me scornful, the year after year; Perhaps if I sue, in the "sere yellow leaf," She'll open her heart, and yield me relief. But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu, My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you, And beg with your friends, you'll please place my name, The privilege grant me of doing the same.

S. NICHOLSON. Boston, April 16, 1862.

REJOINDER TO THE FOREGOING REPLY.

Many, many thanks my friend, For those sweet verses thou didst send, So good they were and witty; And now I will confess to thee, Mixed up with bad, much good I see Within the crowded city.

Boston, "with all thy faults I love Thee still," though much I disapprove-- See much in thee to blame; Yet to be candid, I'll allow Thy equal no one can me show From Mexico to Maine.

It is my boast, perhaps my pride, To be to English blood allied, Warm in my veins it's flowing; And when I see the homage given To foreign men and foreign _women_,[1] _That blood with shame is glowing_.

I hope when Kossuth fever's cool And we have put our wits to school, And sober senses found; When the Hungarian's out of sight And shattered brains collected quite, We may be safe and sound.

But what simpletons, should we choose, With nought to gain and much to loose, 'Gainst Austria to war; What greater folly, when we know By doing this, we'll get a blow From the ambitious Czar.

But you may not with me agree, And I am getting warm I see, So here I bid adieu To Kossuth and to Hungary, To Russia and to Germany, And the great Emperor too.

And now my friend a word I'd say Before I throw my pen away, On subject most important; In doing this I need not fear I shall offend the nicest ear, Or strike a note discordant.

Oh! had I true poetic fire, With boldness would I strike the lyre So loud that all might hear; But ah! my harp is tuned so low, Its feeble strains I full well know Can reach no distant ear.

Yet I rejoice that harps on high, And voices of sweet harmony, Are raised to bless the name Of Him who sits upon the throne, Rejoicing over souls new born, Who soon will join with them, Eternally His name to adore Who died, yet lives forevermore.

Weston, May 8, 1852.

[1] By this I do not mean to include all foreigners, for some of
them I consider among the very best of our population, but
dancers, &c., &c.

TO MY FRIEND MR. J. ELLIS.

To thee, the guardian of my youthful days, Fain would I pay some tribute of respect; And though it falls far short of thy desert, The _will_ to do thee justice thou'lt accept.

As I recall the days of former years, Thy many acts of kindness bring to mind, Tears fill my eyes, in thee I've ever found A friend most faithful, uniformly kind.

Thou art the earliest friend of mine that's left-- The rest have long departed, every one; They've long years since the debt of nature paid, But thou remainest still, and thou alone.

The snow of four score winters thou has seen, And life's long pilgrimage may soon be o'er; Respected, loved, and happy hast thou been, With ample means to relieve the suffering poor, Thou ever hadst the will, as well as power.

Temperate in habit, and of temper even, Calm and unruffled as the peaceful lake, To thee the satisfaction has been given Much to enjoy, and others happy make.

And when thy days on earth shall all be past, And thou before the Saviour's bar appear, Mayst thou be found clothed in his righteousness And from his lips the joyful sentence hear--

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou Hast over few things faithful been, and now I'll make thee ruler over many things, And place a crown of glory on thy brow."

Such will be thy reward, my friend, and mine, If trusting in Christ's merits, _not our own_, We at the last great day in him be found; _He_ is the ark of safety--_He alone_.

Weston, April 24, 1852.

A PASTORAL.

Oh! tell me ye shepherds, tell me I pray, Have you seen the fair Jessie pass by this way? You ne'er could forget her, if once you had seen, She's fair as the morning, she moves like a Queen.

My sheep are neglected, my crook's thrown aside, In pursuit of dear Jessie, sweet Jessie, my bride; I hear nothing of her, no tidings can glean, To _see_ is to _know_ her, she moves like a Queen.

Say, have you seen her? oh, pity my grief! Speak _quick_, and impart me the needful relief; You cannot forget her, if once you have seen, She's lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen.

Have you not seen her?--then listen I pray, Oh! listen to what a poor shepherd can say In the praise of one ne'er so lovely was seen; She's youthful as Hebe, she moves like a Queen.

She's fair as the Spring in the mild month of May, She's brilliant as June decked in flowerets so gay; You ne'er could forget her if once you had seen, She's charming as Flora, she moves like a Queen.

Oh! tell me not Damon, that yours can compare To Jessie, sweet Jessie, with beauty so rare; With a face of such sweetness, so modest a mien, She's like morn in its freshness, she moves like a Queen.

You tell me your Sylvia is beautiful quite; She may be, when Jessie is kept out of sight; She is not to be mentioned with Jessie, I ween, Her voice is sweet music, she moves like a Queen.

Then name not your Sylvia with Jessie I pray, 'Tis comparing dark night with the fair light of day; Sylvia's movements are clumsy, and awkwardly seen, But Jessie is graceful, she moves like a Queen.

Menalaus' fair wife, for beauty far famed, By the side of my Jessie is not to be named; Paris ne'er had woo'd Helen, if Jessie he'd seen, She's chaste as Diana, she moves like a Queen.

Oh! aid me, do aid me, ye shepherds, I pray! The time is fast flying, no longer I'll stay; You cannot mistake her, there's none like her seen, She's lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen.

Do help me to find her, I'm wild with affright, The day passes swiftly, it soon will be night; There's none to compare with her, none like her seen, _More_ lovely than Venus, she moves like a Queen.

THE JESSAMINE.

EDDIE TO JESSIE.

There are many flowers famous for fragrance and hue, Sweet Roses and Lilies, Geraniums too; And though decked in gay colors they look very fine, They are not to my fancy like _sweet Jessie mine_.

FOR THE S.S. CONCERT,

IN THE WAYLAND ORTHODOX CHURCH.

Feed my lambs! the Saviour said, Near two thousand years ago; If we truly love the Lord, By obedience, love we'll show.

What was said to Peter then, In that distant age and clime, Sure is binding on us now, Here and to the end of time.

If our Shepherd then we love, His commandments we'll obey; Let us true disciples prove, Feed his lambs as best we may.

Twice twelve years have passed this day,[2] Since our Sabbath School commenced; Countless lessons have been learned, Much instruction been dispensed.

Let us up and doing be, Sow the seed all times and hours; Cast our bread on water even, Tax with vigor all our powers.

May the teachers now engaged, Courage take, and persevere; They'll not fail of their reward, Though they may not meet it here.

God is faithful, who hath said, (Let the thought allay your fears,) "They with joy shall surely reap, Who have sown in prayers and tears."

Then sow the seed with prayers and tears; Never doubt, but faithful be; Though thou reapest not for years, A rich harvest thou wilt see.

Happy faces now we miss, Who were wont these seats to fill; Loved and lovely passed away, Yet they're fresh in memory still.

Soon their earthly race was run, In the morning called away; Others soon may follow them, May all hear the Saviour say,

"Well done, faithful servant; thou Hast o'er few things faithful been, I will make the ruler now Over many--enter in."

[2] June 13, 1852.

FEED MY LAMBS.

Just before the bright cloud the Saviour received, When about to return to his father in Heaven; His mission accomplished, his work on earth done, 'Twas then that this parting injunction was given:

"Feed my lambs!" this was said to one of the twelve, Whom he called to be with him while sojourning here; "Feed my lambs!" Oh, what love was evinced by those words, What tender compassion, what fatherly care.

Three times at this meeting the question was asked, "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?" And though grieved, yet how truly could Peter reply, "Lord thou knowest all things, thou know'st I love thee."

Thrice this same Peter his Lord had denied, And had he not reason reproaches to fear? Oh, no! for his Saviour had all this forgiven, He saw his repentance, he knew it sincere.

That disciple soon followed his Lord whom he loved, And many long ages have since passed away; But the parting command still remains in full force, And will ever remain so till time's latest day.

Many wolves in sheep's clothing are still to be found, Whom Satan fails not to instruct and employ; They enter the fold, and with most specious wiles, Seek the young of the flock to ensnare and destroy.

And shall we dare call ourselves followers of Christ, And yet his known precepts presume to evade? Ah! stop and reflect, what's the test that's required? "If ye love me, keep my commandments," he said.

June 26, 1852.

"GOD IS LOVE."

Come blest Spirit from above, Come and fill my heart with love; Love to God, and love to man, Love to do the good I can; Love to high, and love to low, Love to friend, and love to foe. Love to rich, and love to poor, Love to beggar at my door. Love to young, and love to old, Love to hardened heart and cold. Love, true love, my heart within For the sinner, _not the sin_; Love to holy Sabbath day, Love to meditate and pray, Love for love, for _hatred_ even; _Love like this, is born of Heaven_.